Before Your Eyes
by Rob764
Summary: Remember the assassin Nimbul in Nashkel? This is his background. 3rd chapter up. r/r plz!
1. Prelude

He was dying. Nimbul was dying. He could feel blood, his own blood, welling up inside his mouth, the result of a pierced lung. He lay there, on the ground, dying in a pissy little town from the blade of a Halfling.  
  
"What'cha think we should do with him, Jaheira?" Nimbul's killer nudged the assassin's thigh with her boot.  
  
"Do not disturb the dead, child," the half-elven woman scolded, then looked upon Nimbul's body with disgust, "not even one with so vile a corpse."  
  
Nimbul coughed, determined to defy his killers until the blackness washed over him.  
  
"What is this?" a giant of a man came into Nimbul's field of vision, "the hired murderer has not drawn his last breath! Boo is surprised.not many have survived the gut-wrenching stab of Minsc!"  
  
The man raised his hand, and Nimbul caught a glance of his littler burden. The man was talking to a hamster! Oh, the humiliation to be killed by one so addled.  
  
"To be fair, Minsc, it was me who killed the guy," the Halfling piped, "or.nearly."  
  
"We should end his suffering," the half-elf looked to the senseless one, "Minsc, if you would be so kind?"  
  
"Ok, Hired One, it is time for you to meet your maker," the man raised his sword, levelling it over the assassin's throat.  
  
"I doubt this one will be journeying to such a holy place," the one known as Jaheira grunted.  
  
And Nimbul's life flashed before his eyes. 


	2. The Best of Friends, The Worst Of Fiends

Note: This chapter is a little crappy. I'm sorry for this, the story WILL get better ;) I was just trying to establish some sort early memory for Nimbul, and reasons for his actions in later life. Keep reading.it gets better, I promise.  
  
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From an early age, Nimbul just had one goal: he would not be like his father. Why? Well, quite simply, because his father was a downright bastard. His cruel personality and vicious beatings left the whole household afraid of him. His seven children were terrified to raise their voices above a whisper when they were around him, his wife was a shell of the woman she had once been, and the servants were always in fear of their jobs, as well as their lives.  
  
And there were many servants. twenty five kitchen staff, twenty maids, fifteen porters and ten guards. All under the huge roof of the biggest residence in Easthaven, one of the Ten Towns of Icewind Dale.  
  
Nimbul's father, Eric Osgar, was the owner of a large fishing company, and, in the freezing northlands of Icewind Dale, where catching knucklehead trout was the main income for the folk, that made Mr Osgar richer than the mayor.  
  
The Osgar children were all well-read and well-bred, and each within a year of each other. They ranged from Benjamin, the oldest at fourteen, to Samantha, seven. Nathaniel was twelve. And he would become one of the most excellent assassins the Sword Coast would ever meet.  
  
All the children were home-schooled, and so did not have many friends outside the house. Because of this, many of the younger staff palled up to them. Nathaniel was particularly friendly with a seventeen year old porter by the name of Michael. Most evenings they could be found on the terrace outside Nathaniel's room, gazing at the stars and speaking into the night.  
  
"I have noticed you are getting closer to Tashia," Nathaniel observed, lying back on the tiles.  
  
"Mate, we've been courtin' fer five months, an' you've only just noticed?" Michael laughed, and his speech was noticeably different from his younger friend, "mate, you've gotta get some perception skills. I think I love her, you know. An' if your beast of an old man could just raise me wage a bit, I'd propose, too."  
  
"W-wow," Nathaniel stuttered, "you must really love her."  
  
"I do," the older boy sighed, gazing into the black night, "an' when I marry her, I'm gonna take her to Luskan, an' we're gonna live like kings an' queens, we is."  
  
"That's a pretty lofty dream, my friend," Nathaniel chuckled, patting his companion on the back, "we learnt about the world in class, and Luskan is miles away. You'd have to walk for days to get there."  
  
"No where is too far for me an' me lady." * * *  
  
"Dammit, woman! If I am to entertain the Spokesman of Bryn Shander, I must have an unwrinkled cloak!" Eric Osgar raged at the maid, more of a girl than a woman, at the foot of the grand staircase. It was noon, and the children were just finishing their lessons and were coming out of the hall that served as the school. They stood at the top of the stairs, as their father screamed at the bottom. The servants, bustling around preparing lunch, stood still as one of their own was scolded.  
  
"I-I am sorry, sir," the girl stammered, shrinking away from the man. He truly was a terrifying figure. He had seen fifty three winters, but looked as if this were his fortieth. He stood at just over six feet tall, with a stocky frame and a neatly trimmed beard. His hair, once jet black, now had streaks of white, hung around his neck like a mane. In his left hand he held his wrinkled cloak, and in his right hand-  
  
One of the tools Eric Osgar used to instil fear into his house, apart from his height and overall manner and appearance, was a walking stick. Crowned with a silver skull of a knucklehead trout, the stick was forged of gnarled iron, and was constantly at the man's side. He gripped the head, knocking it on the ground when he was irritated, and anyone who witnessed the cane suspected that it could be used as more than a threat.  
  
Nathaniel watched as the maid burst into tears. Frederick, a brother a year younger than Nathaniel, sniggered. Benjamin, the eldest child, scolded him quietly. "Shut up, you spiteful beast! Can you not see the girl is upset?"  
  
Osgar stopped roaring and turned on his heel. The marble heel, having just been mopped, was slick, and the man stumbled slightly. The crowd managed to keep straight faces. Except one person. A girl at the front snorted, tried to muffle it, but it was too late. Osgar turned, glared at her. He walked towards her, and she visibly shuddered. The huge man grabbed her by the collar and dragged her to the foot of the stairs. She let out a yelp as he shook her away, and Nathaniel recognised her face as it came into view.  
  
"Tashia," he breathed.  
  
"Did you find that amusing?" Osgar snarled, his voice dangerously quiet, "did that make you laugh?"  
  
"Please, sir, ple-"  
  
"Answer my question. Did you find that funny?"  
  
"No, sir, ple-"  
  
"Liar!" Osgar lashed out, and dealt the girl a knock with the head of the stick. It was a glancing blow, but it connected with her face and there was an audible crack as her jaw broke. She collapsed at the foot of the stairs, weeping. He didn't stop. The stick came up and flashed down, head first, striking the maid. He struck again and again, and after the first couple of blows blood started to form on the cane.  
  
Osgar stepped back from his work, breathing hard. His face was a mask of horror, blots of blood over his expression of satisfaction. An evil grin spread from ear to ear.  
  
"You malicious bastard!"  
  
Michael tackled the old man hard, and Osgar fell, sprawled across the floor. Michael stumbled up and knelt by the bloody, unmoving pulp that was Tashia.  
  
"Me love," Michael moaned, "me love, me love, me love."  
  
The entire hall was silent. Servants, the Osgar family, the guards, all looked on in terrified awe as the old man rose. Michael saw this, grabbed the cane that lay in a pool of blood, Tashia's blood, and stood to meet his enemy.  
  
"Don't you move!" Michael screamed, tears running down his face, "don't you bloody move, or I swear I'll bloody kill yer! Don't bloody move!"  
  
Osgar stood, still with the grin on his face. He shook his head slowly.  
  
"Idiot."  
  
"No!" Nathaniel called out in horror as the guards rushed forwards, swords drawn. Michael was blinded with grief, holding the cane ready to fight to the last. But he faced ten fully trained guards armed with swords. He had no chance of survival.  
  
To his credit, the seventeen year old parried the first thrust. The second, third and forth bypassed his weapon and pierced Michael's tunic uniform. The young man winced in pain as three blades entered his chest and punctured his spine. His eyes closed as they were drawn out, and he fell to his knees. By the time his head hit the floor he was dead, and ready to meet his love. 


	3. Escape

NOTE: eep, realised I hadn't added a physical description for Nimbul/Nathaniel, so be aware of change coming to the previous chapter within the next few days. Apart from that, just more story being added with no prospect of editing past chapters. Enjoy. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------  
  
A lone tear slid down Nathaniel's cheek, making a gentle *plop* on the terrace tiles. He blinked back more, and brought his head down from staring into the stars. He looked to his right, to where Michael had lain just last night, laughing at Nathaniel's ignorance. Where was the young man now? Lying in an unmarked grave with Tashia on the outskirts of town. A pitiful end to so short a life.  
  
"You should come in," whispered a voice from behind, "unless you want to catch your death."  
  
Nathaniel turned his head, locking eyes with Benjamin. "I'm staying out here for a while. I need to...digest what has happened tonight."  
  
"What is to digest?" Benjamin questioned, shrugging slightly, "a couple of servants stepped out of line, and both were punished."  
  
"By the gods, Benjamin!" Nathaniel cried, "Two people died tonight! Our father killed!"  
  
Benjamin's face softened, and he embraced his younger brother.  
  
"Do not worry," he soothed, "Father is powerful. No harm will come to him, or the family."  
  
Nathaniel pushed away, snarled at boy. "You mistake my grief for anxiety. Let me tell you, brother, my unease is for none but the two children lying in a shallow grave. Our father performed a most vile act tonight, and the gods will not be as forgiving as you!"  
  
"You believe me to have not placed blame upon him?" Benjamin shook his head slowly, a look of pleading on his face, "no, my brother, I am not saying that our father has not performed an action of wickedness." Nathaniel began to forgive his brother for his earlier words. Almost.  
  
"I am just saying that blame cannot fall upon him alone. After all, the stupid twit should have known better than to interfere in a situation that was none of his business."  
  
Rage filled Nathaniel's vision, anger at the defilation of his friend's name. He lashed out, catching his brother with a right hook that dropped him to the ground.  
  
If he could have risen, Benjamin surely would have beaten his sibling back with the utmost of ease. But the younger boy had surprise on his side, and quickly kicked his victim twice in the ribs. He punched twice more, face blows, and blood dribbled from Benjamin's nose. Nathaniel knelt and raised his arm to deliver a third smack, but he came into eye contact with his brother and stopped. Benjamin's eyes were full of sadistic mirth.  
  
"You say our father is vile," the older boy snorted, "and yet you do not hesitate to distribute a beating."  
  
Nathaniel blinked twice, rose to his feet and backed away. He sat on the terrace, resuming his place and stared up at the night sky.  
  
"You are correct," he sighed as his brother climbed to his feet, wiping his face, "but know this: I will not come to the same fate as our father. I will not be like him. No matter the similarities you may see now, my brother, I will not turn into Eric Osgar."  
  
* * *  
  
He had to work quickly. The house would be up soon and he had no desire to meet anyone. Benjamin had seemingly forgiven him, and had gone back to his room. But he, Nathaniel, would not go on like nothing had happened. He was getting out, and he was getting out tonight.  
  
He made a mental list of what to take, and slung the pack he had received for his tenth birthday over his shoulder. He filled the pack with food supplies from the kitchens, wrapped a coat crafted from the finest yeti pelt around his small form, and emptied his savings box. If he was going to Luskan, he would need money.  
  
The grounds were silent, but every wayward shadow startled Nathaniel as he crept away from his home. He envisioned his father, discovering his exodus five minutes after its occurrence and chasing him down, beating him to death with that dreaded cane. The cane that was still stained with blood.  
  
The thought strengthened Nathaniel's resolve, and he gained speed until his careful steps turned into a run. He exited the family's land and ran through the streets of Easthaven. The hour was late, and quickly turning into early, and so the icy streets were deserted.  
  
The realisation quickly came to Nathaniel that this was his first time out alone in Easthaven. Before, on the rare occasions that the Osgar children had been allowed out for shopping, there had always been a senior servant or their mother to escort them.  
  
The new awareness of his freedom lightened Nathaniel's mood considerably. He was independent. He could do what he wanted. Go where he pleased. He now understood why Michael had wanted to get away. The house seemed smothering compared to this new existence.  
  
Soon his situation became more serious. He reached the outskirts of town. There were no walls in Easthaven; it was a small town, and any threats were so small that the local militia could usually handle them with ease. Goblin bands were easy prey for experienced soldiers.  
  
Nathaniel stood there, on the edge of Easthaven, staring out into the tundra. The sun was rising behind him, and the icy lands looked attractive and gentle. Nathaniel took a deep breath, and without looking back he walked away from Easthaven, from his home, and from his father.  
  
* * *  
  
Things turned nasty fast. Within half a day, Nathaniel's legs grew tired, and he sat down for a rest. Easthaven could still be seen, though barely. A light wind had gathered, threatening a snowstorm. Nathaniel settled down to eat and calculated his next move. From the Sun's position, he worked out which way was South. Luskan was South, and so obviously that was the way to go. However, his earlier words to Michael came back to haunt him. Luskan was days away. If the wind picked up, he could freeze.  
  
After a few more hours, the sky was becoming red and orange, and Easthaven was no longer in sight. The threatened storm had arrived, and a vicious gale was blowing, whipping ice into Nathaniel's face, stinging his eyes. The boy found a small overhang in a snow dune, and crept inside. It provided shelter from the snow, and he settled down to sleep.  
  
In the morning, nothing had improved. The storm was still there, more fierce than ever. Nathaniel ate a small breakfast of stale bread, and started out again. He used the Sun for guidance, but soon the storm became so strong that blowing snow shielded the Sun's glare, and Nathaniel did not know where he was going. To make matters worse, his legs were freezing, and his feet were rapidly becoming numb. He tucked his hands inside his coat and wrapped the sleeves around himself, shivering as he walked.  
  
The cold swept over him like a curtain, making his head swim. He dropped to the ground, his whole body numb. His face was implanted firmly in the snow, but he could no longer feel the bitter sting. Blackness came, and he passed out.  
  
* * *  
  
Hours passed. The blizzard subsided, turning back into a light wind. A snow- wolf appeared, but left the boy's body alone, for it had no interest in carrion. A passing yeti did not notice the small bundle lying in the snow.  
  
But someone did.  
  
"Samuel, stop," the man ordered, not turning to the man sitting next to him. They were at the front of the caravan, sitting on the horse-drawn carriage. Two wagons trailed behind them, attached by ropes.  
  
"Samuel, stop," the man ordered again when the cart made no sign of slowing, "I think there's a person lying on the road." He was middle-aged, but already showed signs of balding, though you could not see as he wore a furry hood. A scar took over one side of his otherwise handsome face, stretching from his eye to his mouth. He was slim, but it was obvious he held a large amount of strength.  
  
The cart continued, the driver seemingly not noticing his companion's order. The horses trotted on, having no requests to reduce speed. The wheels rolled, crunching the snow.  
  
"Samuel, stop. Stop, Samuel! Sam! Stop!"  
  
The wheels crunched to a halt inches from the figure's head. The driver turned, a look of surprise on his face.  
  
"Sorry, couldn't hear you." He apologised, "what is it? Need a leak?"  
  
"You nearly ran someone over, Sam!" the man jumped from his seat and ran to the wheels.  
  
Samuel, a man not past his fortieth winter, was large, and a single tuft of red hair protruded from his skull. He was bigger than his partner, stocky, with a vacant look in his eyes. As his mother used to say, the lights were on but there was nobody home.  
  
"Sorry, Quartz," Samuel hopped from his seat and walked round to join his friend, "didn't see them. Must've just jumped out."  
  
"No," Quartz shook his head as he knelt, studying the bundle, "this one was lying here."  
  
"Leave him," Samuel came to stand next to his friend, "if he's lying down when it this cold, chances are he's not taking a nap."  
  
Quartz rolled the body over. It was a boy, young.  
  
"He's alive," the man noted, "but his breathing's a bit too slow for my liking."  
  
"What do you reckon," Samuel knelt, examined the child, "barbarian?"  
  
"No," Quartz immediately disputed the claim, "see? The hair's black. Barbarian's are blonde. Not as small as this either, not even the kids. Well, let's get him on the truck." 


End file.
